Donal Mahoney

Dropped By A Peacock

I can no more justify these poems
than can the pyromaniac
his conflagrations. We both
stand back, the pyromaniac
in his alley, I on my hill,
each of us loving
the leap of our flames.
His are gazelles but mine
are just feathers
dropped by a peacock.

Haberdasher’s Thoughts

The haberdasher has
that season of the year
he rids his racks, his bins
of oddments.
I have no season of the year
like that.
Today, or any day, a derby,
spats or chrome-tipped cane
can shuffle out from stock.
I have no choice.
I have to offer counter space.

Donal Mahoney, a product of Chicago, lives in exile now in St. Louis, MO. Some of his early work can be found at

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